The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  Attracted by its motion, Sir Harrowby’s gaze came to rest on her bosom and he choked out, “Too much were impossible, Mrs. Isabella.”

  Seated as he was, he managed to make a credible bow. Hester had no doubt that if Isabella and he had been alone, he would have pressed her hand with a gallant kiss.

  Mrs. Mayfield broke in, “I have always said that no one can make as pretty a speech as you, Sir Harrowby, not even Mr. Letchworth for all of his scribblings. The ladies always count you amongst their favourites, sir.”

  Astonished by this praise from a quarter in which he had always received otherwise, Sir Harrowby blushed more convincingly than Isabella ever had. Before he could respond, Mrs. Mayfield went on, “I daresay St. Mars did come to see my daughter, but she has other suitors besides him. And it would surprise me if they did not all try to steal a march on his lordship while he is down.”

  “If he truly wants my Isabella,” she added sternly, “he had better heal quickly, or she will be spoken for.”

  This speech had the wished-for effect of planting an idea in Sir Harrowby’s infertile brain. He glanced from Mrs. Mayfield to Isabella and his eyes grew round. “Steal a march, you say? Zounds, ma’am! Poor ol’ Gid!”

  “Poor, indeed,” Hester murmured to herself. Only Mrs. Mayfield gave a sign of noticing her remark, but her aunt’s hearing was notoriously acute.

  She glared spitefully at Hester, and her next words held a hardness no one could miss. “It seems that my Lord St. Mars may not recover in any event and, if that turns out to be the case, then you would be the new Lord Hawkhurst, Sir Harrowby.”

  Her target paled. His voice shook, whether from a secret wish or fearful dismay, Hester could not tell. “I had not thought of that, Mrs. Mayfield.”

  “Lud, Sir Harrowby!” With one of her swift reverses, Mrs. Mayfield gave a playful wave. “You will have me thinking you a slow-top, sir! Your modesty does you credit, but surely you must know that if his lordship was to die or if, for whatever reason, he was not to ascend to his father’s honours, then you would be the next in line.”

  He laughed nervously, it seemed, although his flush had blossomed in colour as if fed by an inner burst of exhilaration. “Naturally one knows, but one does not—that is, I have always felt—so far from it—the succession I mean. St. Mars being so robust and all.”

  “Robust is as robust does.” For all her absurdity, Mrs. Mayfield made a point. “I have always said to my Isabella that it is your hot-blooded young gentlemen who get themselves in some trouble or other. Whether it be a wound, like St. Mars’s, or something more serious—who’s to tell?—they are not always there to be relied upon, are they? While more elegant gentlemen like you and his Grace of Bournemouth are just the sort that a girl like my Isabella should settle down with. Not that I can promise anything, mind. I would never try to tell my Isabella where to bestow her heart. But she’s a good girl, and she does what her mama says.”

  Hester could not believe that the simplest of fools would fail to see through these ill-bred remarks, but Sir Harrowby appeared not to mind. If he failed to follow her aunt’s twisted logic, it nevertheless seemed to increase his sense of pride to be placed on a level with the Duke. He beamed, and his brightening smile could only now be attributed to hope.

  Throughout this interchange Isabella had done her part by looking modest and lovely. Mrs. Mayfield had placed her directly across from their guest so he could feast his eyes upon her dashing toilette. Although his gaze had none of the depths of passion Hester had witnessed in Lord St. Mars’s, it did show a connoisseur’s gleam of approval as it dwelt on Isabella’s dress.

  For her own part, Hester would have preferred to see a bit more affection on a prospective lover’s face, but she was beginning to think that she and Isabella would never think alike. In light of the more serious matter of St. Mars’s recovery, she hurriedly dismissed this unworthy thought.

  It was plain to see that Mrs. Mayfield had written St. Mars off entirely. She even wished for his death—a possibility that could only make Hester shudder. For a shining gentleman like St. Mars to be so easily dismissed was the greatest incomprehensibility of all. She despised her aunt more now than ever before.

  Hester was burning with questions concerning the mystery of Lord Hawkhurst’s death, but she could not very well ask them. Even if Sir Harrowby knew the answers, which he most likely did not, Mrs. Mayfield would quickly put a stop to any query she made. Her aunt had no interest in the truth. She regarded the death of Lord Hawkhurst, and St. Mars’s life, only with respect to how they affected Isabella’s prospects.

  But Hester could not master her need to know. She was too recently acquainted with St. Mars to know anything of his father. If St. Mars had not killed him—and she was certain he had not—then who would have wished to do his lordship in? Why would any person take another one’s life?

  Murder was a stranger to Hester. Her only frame of reference to help her understand it was Scripture. And the Bible was usually more eloquent on the matter of punishment than motive.

  Why had Cain killed Abel? From jealousy, because Abel had found more favour in the eyes of the Lord?

  But jealousy of a father? Envy, perhaps, because Lord Hawkhurst possessed an earldom. Would anyone kill for envy alone?

  A man might kill if he stood to gain from the death of another. Her aunt had suggested as much. Mrs. Mayfield was prepared to believe that Lord St. Mars had killed his father in order to inherit his place, because as an earl, he would find more favour in Isabella’s eyes.

  The thought made Hester shiver, even as she refused to accept it. Surely there would be others who would suspect St. Mars of such a vile motive. But Hester could not believe that the prospect of a title he was sure to inherit would tempt a good man like St. Mars to murder.

  Who else would stand to gain from Lord Hawkhurst’s death?

  A laugh from Sir Harrowby over one of Mrs. Mayfield’s sallies brought Hester’s gaze to his face, and a stunning realization took her breath away.

  She had always thought Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons a rather harmless gentleman—neither bright enough nor purposeful enough to be cruel.

  But was he? Beneath that inoffensive exterior could lurk the heart of an envious man. So envious of his uncle’s riches, and his cousin’s handsome looks, that resentment had spread its ugly tentacles. Hester remembered her aunt’s taunts on the night of the ball. Had she not on several occasions made her position clear? Surely before that night she had let it be known that Sir Harrowby could never win her daughter’s hand as long as two men of superior rank were in the running.

  How much did Harrowby want Isabella and the title of Hawkhurst? Enough to kill his uncle and cast the blame on his cousin? Hester stared at his ingenuous face. Could anyone truly be as fatuous as he appeared?

  Gideon awoke from a fog, to the odor of plaster and spice. For a long time, it seemed, his dreams had been filled with the stuff of nightmares. His tongue was swollen and his throat felt raw. He tried to speak many times before any sound emerged.

  Instantly, Philippe seemed to appear from nowhere. “Monsieur le comte! Dieu merci! You are better, yes?”

  Gideon weighed this strange form of address until he recalled. Monsieur le comte. Yes. A wave of dizziness threatened to render him sick. He was the earl now. His father was dead.

  “I must be getting better,” he said, through a rush of bleakness. He wished he had never emerged from his oblivion. “How long have I been in this state?”

  “Close to a fortnight, monsieur. You have been very ill.”

  “And my father?”

  “My regrets, Monseigneur.” An unaccustomed kindness softened Philippe’s voice. “Monsieur votre père is to be buried in three days. I asked the messenger why they do not wait for the son of monsieur le comte to recover before he is interred, but this messenger he did not know.”

  Gideon felt stunned. “Who gave the order to have my father buried so quickly? Do you know?”

 
Philippe did not. But only one person would have had that authority—Lord Hawkhurst’s executor, whoever that was. Gideon could not imagine why the funeral had not been postponed until he could attend. His father’s body would have been embalmed to allow it to lie in state for as long as desired. Gideon did not know if he was well enough to endure the journey, but he must go home as quickly as possible. He must have a glimpse of his father before he was entombed forever. To have him die so suddenly—then to feel as if all trace of him had vanished— It would be intolerable.

  Feeling weaker than a fop’s limp wrist, he struggled to sit. “Please help me to rise,” he said. “I must get to the Abbey.”

  “Mais non, non, non!”

  At Gideon’s look of shock, Philippe apologetically fell to one knee, his eyes respectfully lowered. “I am sorry, Monseigneur.” Tears of frustration filled his voice. “But you have been very ill, and I cannot bear it if monsieur were to go out of his head again. It would be insupportable.”

  “Sorry to inconvenience you,” Gideon’s voice croaked out his irony. “I was under the impression that your wages had been set sufficiently to cover even this eventuality.”

  “Monsieur, Philippe does not speak of wages. He speaks of a much greater importance. It is only due to Philippe that monsieur is still alive. These men below the stairs—they are all imbéciles! They would insist that monsieur have speech when monsieur did not have the head to speak his own name.”

  “What men?” Exhausted, Gideon fell back against the pillows. “No, don’t answer yet. Bring me some water first.”

  “Oui, monsieur.” Leaping to his feet, Philippe disappeared no more than a second before he returned with a goblet of spiced water. As he helped Gideon raise his head and held the vessel to his lips, he whispered, “Sir Joshua’s men have been waiting below since the night monsieur le comte was killed.”

  “To see me? Have they caught the villain who murdered my father?”

  To Gideon’s immense confusion, Philippe assumed a guarded look. “Not yet, monsieur, and moi, I must ask myself if these English are not all fools.”

  Gideon was much too tired, and too full of grief, to attend to this speech. And he had to get up. He had to go to his father’s funeral. Then he would find his father’s murderer and make him pay.

  A sip of the cool water soothed his dry throat, and he rested until his head felt clearer. Nothing could dim his revulsion of the moment the justice of the peace had stated his news. Gideon knew his only comfort would be in bringing his father’s assassin to the gallows. He had to discover the details of the attack—no matter how painful—and take the purposeful steps to bring the killer to justice.

  His regret for the fury he and his father had exchanged would take a longer time to heal.

  “Help me to stand, Philippe.”

  “No, monsieur. You are very weak. You must remain abed.”

  “Confound you! I know how weak I am, but I must speak to Sir Joshua. Tell his men to send him word I wish to see him.”

  Gideon tried to lift himself, but as he struggled to sit, the room revolved.

  “Mais voilà, what did Philippe tell you?”

  In spite of his pain and dizziness, Gideon gave a frustrated laugh. “You impudent dog! I shall have your tail hacked off for that. If you will not help me to stand, I shall call Thomas Barnes. He will obey me.”

  If Gideon thought this lie would spur his valet, he was grossly mistaken. The suggestion that a stable servant would be preferable seemed to carry no offence.

  “This Thomas will agree with Philippe when he sees monsieur be so stubborn, n’est-ce pas?”

  As if their words had miraculously conjured him from the stable, Thomas suddenly appeared at his bedside, determined, it seemed, to press his master back down onto the bed. “That’s right, my lord, just you let the Frenchy take care of you like he’s done. There’s no call to get riled.”

  Gideon was sufficiently astonished to find Tom in his chamber that he easily fell back.

  As soon as he found his tongue again, he said, “Tom, I insist upon getting up! What the devil are you doing in here?”

  “Waiting on you, my lord, seeing as how the Frenchy needed help whenever you was bandaged—which was more often than you’d think. Though I never expected to say it, he does have a way with that lint and those pots of his. Welcome back to the living, Master Gideon.”

  These last words were uttered in a voice so full of emotion that Gideon’s eyes were drawn to his face. A beard of several days growth, dark circles under his eyes and rumpled clothes revealed that Tom had spent the better part of the fortnight at his side. He must have fallen asleep on the floor and only been awakened by the valet’s plaintive tone.

  A fresh look at Philippe discovered similar signs of wear, though his valet would never have allowed himself to appear in such a slovenly state. His hair was coifed with almost his usual care, and his face made up, but weary circles beneath his eyes betrayed his sleepless nights.

  Gideon said, “It seems I have you both to thank. You should seek your beds now, however. Send a footman up to tend me.”

  A meaningful glance exchanged by the two sent him a new surprise. It hinted at a complicity entirely at odds with their former animosity.

  “My lord—” Tom, as the servant of his childhood, was the first to have the courage to speak— “those men downstairs, Sir Joshua’s men—they mean your lordship harm.”

  “Nonsense. What men? And why should they wish me harm? They have come to give their report, and I wish to hear it. If neither of you will help me, I shall have to find new servants. Which I would be sorry to do since you have served me so well.”

  “Monsieur—” Philippe began in an anguished voice.

  With a look of resignation and an unsettling emotion—almost akin to guilt—Tom put an end to the Frenchman’s protest. “Better do as the master says. Likely, he knows what is best.”

  Gideon was thrown by this sudden docility from a man who had never scrupled to scold or instruct him. On reflection, he could ascribe it to only one of two possible things. Either Tom had the intention of according him more respect, now that he had succeeded to his father’s honours, or else, he refused to let his lord’s valet see how disrespectful he could be.

  Whatever the cause, in spite of his still-considerable weakness, Gideon soon found himself fed with a restorative broth, washed and coifed, and wrapped in a striped silk banyan to receive the officers. He would have argued with Philippe about the choice of garment, but he hadn’t the strength to overcome his wishes. And he would need all his strength to question the men.

  Sitting up in bed, he ordered Tom and Philippe to take themselves off, to find a meal and get some rest. They went reluctantly.

  Unexpectedly, Sir Joshua himself appeared in his door. He must have received Gideon’s message and come immediately, though his eagerness had not led him to put on a welcoming face. With his short, square wig covering a large head and a frown on his fleshy features, he entered first, followed by a man Gideon did not know. This second fellow, a burly man with coarse, dark curls tied back in a queue, seemed afraid to trespass in an earl’s bedchamber. Gideon made an inviting gesture to put him at ease.

  “I am sorry I have been indisposed. You have come to tell me about my father’s murder. Have you found the killer?”

  “As to that, my lord, there are questions to be answered before any charges can be laid.”

  His unwontedly hostile tone raised Gideon’s hackles. What could he mean by being so damned offensive? An uneasy memory, something that had been said the night of the ball, gave Gideon pause, but he answered tightly, “Surely, sir, the servants who attended my father at Rotherham Abbey could give you a better idea of what occurred than I can. Though painful to me, their account is something I fear I must hear.”

  Sir Joshua replied, “They say you quarreled.”

  Startled—and surprised—Gideon frowned. “What passed between my father and me is no one’s affair.”r />
  “But you admitted as much at Lord Eppington’s ball.”

  Startled again, Gideon took a moment to assess this news. He tried to remember what had happened after he had learned of his father’s death, but that evening was a blur. He wondered why the justice of the peace had come to confront him rather than to inform him of what he wanted to know.

  Alarm, from some danger he could sense but not see, threatened to weaken him, when outrage should have been his response. His father would never have allowed Tate to speak to him in this insolent manner, but Gideon was not strong enough at the moment to throw the Roundhead out of his house.

  “I was not myself that night. The injury that has kept me abed had started to fester.”

  “So your servants have said, my lord. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me how you came about that wound.”

  Gideon related the attack as best as he could recall.

  “You could not identify the man you say attacked you?”

  “No, he wore a mask. If you wish to know more, ask my groom, Thomas Barnes. He was there, and he carried me in.”

  “We have spoken to your father’s servants, my lord. There is some disagreement as to when you received your injury.”

  Gideon felt a shock. “There could be no argument. More than one servant saw me carried in. There was blood on my coat.”

  Sir Joshua’s silence let Gideon know he had no intention of volunteering names. And nothing could force him to. The law did not require him to divulge his witnesses.

  The constable—for that was what he was, Gideon realized with amazement—glanced nervously from Sir Joshua’s righteous expression to Gideon’s tense one, from the smug, stodgy figure of the justice of the peace to the lean aristocrat.

  “I insist,” Gideon said, losing all patience. “You must tell me the circumstances of my father’s murder. Who did it? When did it occur? And why are you posing these unnecessary questions?”

  At Sir Joshua’s continued silence, the constable finally spoke. “Your father was attacked just after you left ‘im, my lord, in a first floor closet they’re callin’ ‘is liberry. There must ‘a been some kind o’ turn-to, ‘cause your father ‘ad blood on ‘is sword.”